He made his way into the cultivation wing through the air shower and eventually found Caldwell and Bob in the hub of the mother pods, where Caldwell was holding forth. “We keep our mothers in these pods, Bob. We have four pods because various strains have different environmental requirements. We’ve named these after the four winds. South, East, North and West.” Caldwell pointed to each doorway as he turned a graceless pirouette. “And in here is a particularly fine instance of the benefit of the Emerald Air Systems.” He opened the door to the East Mother Pod.
“Wow,” said Bob. “Sure is bright!”
“Yes, indeed. The plants just love light.” Caldwell chortled. He pointed to a large elliptical disk, about the size of a refrigerator, hanging horizontally from the ceiling on the other side of the room. “You see here a medium-sized Emerald unit is suspended at the far end. It can handle fifteen-hundred cubic feet of airflow per minute, 24/7. We can achieve gale force in here, Bob.” Caldwell laughed and Bob chuckled in response. “Of course we wouldn’t want to do that but we can set and control the air circulation in each room separately. It’s one of the most important factors to keeping clear of mold. The plants are very susceptible — it’s an ongoing concern. And inside that unit, as Emerald Air has no doubt explained to you, there are the UV catalytic bug zappers, dehumidification subunits and their proprietary ionic, ultrasonic particulate-and-spore filters.”
Caldwell cleared his throat and glanced at Bob, ensuring he still had the man’s attention.
Luther lurked in the doorway avoiding the heat, humidity and bright lights as best he could. Also he could make a quick getaway if Caldwell’s blather became too unbearable again.
“As you can see,” Caldwell continued, “there are these very efficient fans suspended here by the entrance wall. It all keeps the air moving in one big circle from the unit across the plants up to the ceiling and back down to the air handler. Now our ceilings are probably a little higher than most grow facilities and this allows for better mixing of the air when you’re adding carbon dioxide or dehumidifying, for example. It’s important the plants all get exposed to the same air properties. This wasn’t exactly planned on our part. It was more a happy accident of the building we’ve refurbished.” Caldwell put his hands out to feel the airflow. The rows of leaves fluttered gently.
Luther noticed some of the leaves close to the doorway were yellow and had dark-green veins sharply contrasting the paleness. He wondered what strain this was and if it was exotic.
Caldwell noticed him looking at the leaves and quickly went on with his talk. “Now, that air-handler unit has a volume-controlled vent leading to a chiller on the roof. The chiller augments the dehumidification, brings in fresh air as required and of course circulates the coolant through the whole system. There’s an automatic feedback that regulates the airflow, temperature and humidity to the set points established for each room. And, Bob, I think I mentioned, each room has its own HVAC system. And virtually all of this is controlled by computers.”
“That’s very impressive. And you’re completely happy with the Emerald Systems’s performance and reliability?”
“Couldn’t be happier, Bob. As I said these HVACs are crucial to our operations.”
Luther pointed at the very pale plant, trying to catch Caldwell’s eye to ask him about it, but Caldwell only glanced at him fleetingly and then turned his back. “You see, Bob, the plants throw out a lot of water vapor, and most regular systems just can’t handle that much humidity. And with the lights — although these don’t throw off as much heat as the old halides — things do heat up, and that needs regulating too. Most strains like things on the chilly side, except for those in the South Mother of course. They’re more tropical. We set temperatures at least five degrees higher.”
“What about CO2? You said you use that?”
“Yes indeed, Bob. We certainly do and that is also on its own discreet system; a simple feedback unit set up with a CO2 monitor and a mass flow controller. We keep concentrations between about seven hundred and a thousand parts per million. As you know this is around double the ambient concentration. Of course it all depends on the development of the plants. Here’s our CO2 unit right on the wall.” And Caldwell passed right by Luther to point it out. “It’s hooked up to a main tank at the moment. Course in the future we’d like to harvest from anything generating CO2 to keep things recycling. I believe Emerald is working on something like this.”
“That’s what they told me.”
“Well here at CannRose, environmental concerns are our concerns. We are taking this place very green. You can count on that.”
Luther had stopped trying to get Caldwell’s attention. It was fairly obvious there was some problem with the pale plant. The peculiar color signified an infection or some screw-up rather than heritage. He knew for a fact that the carbon dioxide systems were prone to disastrous malfunction. Not long ago he’d been shown an incident report where the carbon dioxide was spewing to the point of displacing oxygen. Somebody looking in the window of the affected room noticed the disorientation of her coworker and pulled her out in the nick of time. Luther also knew that at least a quarter of the air handlers had broken down in the first three weeks and several chillers had yet to be delivered. And personally he didn’t give a damn about environmental anything. As far as he knew, the place ate up more energy than a small city, and the advanced waste-management facility still only amounted to a ditch. He cleared his throat quietly and smiled at Caldwell and Bob.
Chapter 21
Lydia felt an uneasy heaviness after a night of only fitful naps. Every time she dozed off she’d wake with a start from vaguely disturbing dreams. Something quietly moving in them. Something stealthy, slow and grasping. She couldn’t remember what. Her daughter had cancelled her monthly visit to Rosefields again. It was becoming a habit, but Lydia had never lost sleep over her daughter’s absence before. It could have been the wine or the fish. She’d hadn’t ever seen little fried fish like that. They were delicious but perhaps a little spicy. Or maybe, and Lydia suddenly felt a spark of recognition as the thought occurred to her, maybe it was because of the tour the previous day.
Lydia rarely ventured into the production area. That was Caldwell and the growers’ territory. But Damian, the master grower, who now lived over her five-car garage when he was in Hullbrooke for his work stints, had insisted she come take a proper tour. As president, surely she needed an appreciation of all that was going on and all that was starting to grow. He seemed quite proud of it in his relaxed way.
As he’d led her through the various grow rooms, she’d found it dizzying. She’d gazed at the rows and rows of young plants while Damian talked about their personalities. The breed or the hybrid had certain traits, just like a person, he’d told her. Lydia couldn’t keep them straight, the plant breeds and their characters. Damian was particularly talkative in the mother pods and he even addressed the plants as if they were people. Women to be exact — “my northern beauties” or “my wild western lovelies” or “how are we growing today, my sweethearts?” At the time, Lydia thought it was quite charming.
Lydia had an old aunt in Tennessee who used to talk to her plants, but she muttered and mumbled. Everybody assumed it was because she lived alone and had nobody else to talk to. Or she could have been bats, her mother admitted one day. More than a few of her mother’s relatives had been institutionalized.
But the way Damian talked, it seemed absolutely normal. He mentioned some Colorado friends and it was clear they all talked the same way. “Bill told me Purple Peanut Kush was a temperamental hussy. ‘Stay away from her. She’s the lady antichrist in peaches and mauve.’ Did I listen? Course not. The young are stupid. She was a disaster.” Damian had smiled as he reminisced. But Lydia wondered now if perhaps it wasn’t this familiarity, this personification of the plants that prompted her restless night. The mention of the antichrist had been amusing at the time. But now the thought was unsettling, not that she was religious in th
e least. She stared at the African violet on her bedroom windowsill. Was it staring back? Could it wish her ill? Did it want to say something?
She lay there for a few minutes and tried to put it all out of her mind. Then she hauled herself out of bed, donned a robe, sat down at her dressing table and picked up her comb. In the mirror, she spotted a tiny cluster of gray hairs high up, almost at the top of her blonde head. She pulled them all out together and then examined them closely. The roots, tiny white bulbs, were like little aliens looking back at her. She flicked the hairs away and a couple of them came to rest on the picture of her children. Lydia almost never looked at it. She plucked the hairs off the silver frame and briefly glanced at the little faces. They were staring at her too. Everything was staring at her this morning. She looked away and then looked back at the photograph. Their gaze was even more intense. She coughed. There was something accusatory in their eyes. She’d never seen it before.
She loved them. Of course she did. She’d birthed them. How could you not love your own children? Even the daughter who kept cancelling. So what was it? They hadn’t gotten enough? But they had everything! Hadn’t gotten enough of her? Was that it? Jordan had always wanted her by his side. “Don’t fuss. They’re perfectly well taken care of by professionals. Nothing to worry about.” So perhaps she didn’t know them. Didn’t put in the requisite mother hours.
It was true, she didn’t often speculate about their trajectory through life. She didn’t quiz them on their hopes and fears, though she was happy if they occasionally confided these things to her. But Lydia thought this was a good thing. She never found them lacking or exceeding in some way that prompted either disappointment or pride. Other mothers in Lydia’s social circle either complained bitterly about their children or bragged, usually for no compelling reason. Lydia just smiled at their stories. She didn’t think she’d avoided some crucial aspect of motherhood by not judging her own children, not holding them to some standard dictated by class and custom. Lydia shook her head. Mothering comes in various shapes and sizes. Maybe her children just had indigestion when the photographer showed up that day. She put the picture in the dressing-table drawer.
Lydia wanted a green smoothie for breakfast. The black kale was looking particularly healthy. Carl had set up a few pots of herbs and leafy vegetables in the solarium off the kitchen for her. She picked two young leaves then headed back into the kitchen to add a stalk of celery, some cucumber, lettuce, a couple of kiwi fruits and filtered water. She watched as the blender did its work. Watched first how everything scrambled and then how the little pieces in the carafe got smaller and smaller and became a brilliant rich green. The plant parts were decimated and indistinguishable. No personalities left at all. And nothing was staring back at her. There was only a union, a fusion, and a tasty one too, she decided with satisfaction.
Lydia’s thoughts drifted to the recent meeting at CannRose. It hadn’t gone well. Luther had come all the way from the state capital to be there and had accused Lazlo of “routinely dropping the ball.” Lazlo countered he could hardly work “twelve hours every day without a break and be expected to remember every frickin’ detail.” Luther had also questioned the construction costs and the price of materials, and Lazlo had squirmed at this. Everybody decided Lazlo needed an assistant, and Luther said his firm would see to the hiring. Lazlo fired back he could “find his own goddamn help” and accused Luther of trying to handle him. And when the CannRose CFO, an associate in Malcolm’s firm who was attending via conference phone, requested access to the various quotes for a particular item that had already been purchased, Lazlo called him an asshole.
The worst of that afternoon of course was when Caldwell flew into rages at both Lazlo and Luther. He slammed his phone on the table at one point and challenged Luther to outline one single thing he knew about marijuana cultivation. Did he even know the difference between indica and sativa? Or soilless media and coconut coir? Could he name a landrace strain or know how it might be acquired? No, of course not. And what could Lazlo possibly know about discerning patients who prefer organic products when Lazlo’s tastes barely extended beyond hotdogs, ketchup and cheese spread?
Lydia hadn’t had a job since her modeling days. But she was beginning to feel this was her calling. She wasn’t just the silent president anymore. Internal and public relations were fascinating. And she was learning so many new things and attending workshops on intriguing topics like team-building, leadership, synergy, influencing customer confidence, and jumping out of the box. And there were simply dozens of business and communications gurus to choose from. Some of the gurus reminded her of Caldwell, and she was beginning to think he’d never been so singular after all. They could talk as much as he could and were just as convincing. Except, unlike Caldwell, who often needed her only to be an appreciative audience, they demanded participation and feedback. It was very encouraging to be called upon to participate. In fact it was thrilling and it was paying off too.
That afternoon when things became so unpleasant in the meeting, Lydia tried out her new skills. She insisted everybody stand up and stretch, and those in the same room form a circle, hold hands and move in toward each other, raising their arms high to the middle until they had formed a temple-like structure. Well of course they all looked peeved at the suggestion, but she prevailed. She’d been warned about naysayers in her seminars. Besides, she was the president. Once they were in the circle, the arguing stopped. She even heard the CFO and Alice start to laugh over the phone. She’d told them they should just raise their arms individually and “be the temple.” Luther had eventually laughed too. It was amazing. She’d changed the mood of that room with a simple suggestion and an activity that took less than three minutes.
Lydia took another gulp of her smoothie. And as it washed down, she realized not only was she something of a babysitter at CannRose, mothering again, but she was also the financial tit for all these squabbling children. The thought was rather shocking for her. She didn’t often have thoughts like that.
Chapter 22
The plants in Flower Room III fluttered in the breeze from the fans. They were all eight weeks old and slightly yellowing, especially the big leaves. The three young devotees moved methodically along the table rows. Scissors flashed from time to time, reflecting the photon blizzard streaming down from the intense lighting.
“I think we’re gonna have to take this to Cassie. I got thirty bananas on these four plants.”
“We should take it to Damian. He’s woke.”
“Not. You see that book?”
“What book? He’s chill.”
“Worse than my dad. Has a purple corduroy cover with a green jewel on it.”
“What?”
“Weird title. Keeps it in his office like a Bible.”
“Dude, that’s his weed singing book or something. He says it’s old.”
“Whatever. Too much like the shit my dad reads.”
“I got . . . um . . . wait a minute. . . ten, eleven . . . uh, fifteen . . . Yeah, I got over twenty.”
“Fuck! These ladies suck, bro.”
“It was the flood.”
“Yeah.”
“But the Kush babies got flooded too. They don’t have bananas.”
“But they might get them.”
“I don’t know. I’d a never used those mothers for the Blitz.”
“Me neither.”
“Yeah.”
“They gotta be solid. Like one sex or another.”
“Yeah, like, and over time.”
“I don’t know, might be cool to be both sexes.”
“Dude, it’s just the stress.”
“Yeah. What’s with Cassie givin’ them a lot and Damian doesn’t?”
“Basic AF.”
“Yeah that sucks.”
“You shouldn’t confuse them.”
“No. You shouldn’t.
“Mothers should never be confused.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t, like, take this to Cass
ie then.”
“Maybe we should take it to Joe.”
“Let’s just take it to Gus. It’s easier.”
“I got . . . eleven . . . thirteen . . . fifteen, sixteen . . . more! Oh crap, there’s seeds too.”
“That’s totally fucked up, dude.”
“They’re gonna have to kill another crop.”
“Sucks!”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t wanna do that.”
“Me neither.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t take this to anybody.”
“Yeah, but these ladies are, like, totally fucked. Right?”
“Then they’ll kill ’em.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t we have to fill in a form?”
“Yeah.”
“So let’s not fill in the form.”
“Yeah! Let’s curve the form.”
“Awesome! That’s fire!”
Chapter 23
After Cassie and Joe had been working at CannRose for about six months, Ms. Ligner from the DOH came in like a hurricane for a surprise second inspection. Cassie took an instant and rock-solid dislike to the woman. As one of Lydia’s assistants in administration exclaimed, “She’s incredibly fucking hot, man.” So she was, Cassie noted, and it was evident she put it to use. Between finding most everyone incompetent and everything inadequate and not meeting the state code, Ms. Ligner flirted. She flirted with Joe in particular. And with Greg, who was old enough to be her father. It appeared she flirted with every male. Even the three young lads, who were so terrified of her they didn’t notice.
“Where is the sanitation plan for the grow area?” Ms. Ligner asked.
Cassie wasn’t even sure what the woman was talking about. She’d heard nothing about a sanitation plan.
The Buds Are Calling Page 12